


The Price of Modernity

by mistyzeo



Series: Birthday Ficlets 2014 [13]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: BAMF Women, Christmas, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Rescue Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 06:22:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2841206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo





	The Price of Modernity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Violsva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violsva/gifts).



Two days to Christmas, and I still hadn't purchased Mary a suitable gift. I might not have the chance now, given that I was handcuffed to a radiator in an abandoned house miles from the center of London. This was the price of modernity, I thought, pulling fruitlessly at the cuff and knowing that if I broke my wrist to free myself the Watsons would be eternally put out. It might come to that, though, depending on how dire the situation became.

I'd been there a day already, and I was aching with hunger, shivering so hard my muscles were sore, and unsure how long it would be before my captors returned. There had been no time to get a message to Scotland Yard, let alone my poor loyal companions; I wondered if I would freeze first or starve.

A commotion downstairs roused me from my melancholy stupor, and I heard familiar voices shouting my name. I could only manage a croak in response, so parched with thirst was I, but it was only a matter of minutes before the door burst open and John Watson filled the doorway.

"Holmes," he gasped, and then he was on his knees before me and taking me in his strong arms. "By Jove, we were so frightened, you absolute madman—"

"John," I gasped into his shoulder.

There was the bang of a gun being fired, the sound of a body hitting the floor, and then Mary Watson followed her husband into the room. Smoke still rose from the barrel of John's service revolver in her hand.

"Good heavens, Holmes," she cried, and joined us on the floor, tucking the pistol away in its holster. Her hands were warm on my face, and I leaned into her with a grateful groan. "Oh, what were you thinking?"

"Holmes, are you hurt?" John demanded. "Beyond the obvious?"

I shook my head. "Dehydrated."

"And half frozen," Mary corrected, feeling my pulse, "and I'm sure you haven't eaten since Thursday. The police are on their way, Holmes; we started looking at your notes last night when you didn't turn up for dinner. I was worried."

"Thank God for a woman's intuition," I mumbled. They'd both come for me. Was there a luckier man in London? I'd spent the night wishing I'd told them the flash of insight I'd had, wishing we were all in our bed together tucked close under the quilts, and trying not to think I might never get to be held by them again.

"Come on, up you get," John said, making quick work of the lock on the handcuff. "We'll be home soon," he promised, "and you'll have forgotten about this business by Christmas."


End file.
